


Hamartia

by rei_c



Series: Fundamental Image 'verse [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-01
Updated: 2006-08-01
Packaged: 2017-12-27 23:45:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/985066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Game is a Stanford tradition, but Sam’s first Hallowe’en away from his family won’t just be puzzles and innocent sleeplessness. Is he hunting for clues, or is something hunting him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> S1 spoilers up to 1x15, just to be safe. Run-on sentences. Twisting of the Triangular Theory of Love. Any and all errors relative to the Game, the Bay Area, and established SPN canon spoken of herein are mine and mine alone.

Sam gets out of the taxi and looks around, smelling salt air and sushi, sweat and beer. Having the cab drive off, leaving him standing alone with his duffel bags and backpack, he realises that this isn’t exactly how he envisioned his arrival at Stanford. He’s not quite sure how he expected this moment to be, maybe the Impala behind him and Dean next to him, maybe his dad already trudging ahead, gruff but getting ready to salt and ward his son’s new dorm room, maybe anything but the silent ocean surrounding him and a raw, aching gap in his mind and soul that he can’t quite work himself around. He’s there, no one else is, and this is all he has: two duffel bags and a backpack, himself, and Stanford. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if it doesn’t work out; he thought about that on the bus to San Francisco, because he can’t go back, not now. 

Sam’s a Winchester, though, and so he takes a deep breath, picks up his things, and walks inside his new home. No turning back, this is where he is, this is who he is: Sam Winchester, freshman, from Lawrence, Kansas, checking in on a Thursday, first day the dorm’s open. He gives his name and admissions letter to the resident fellow behind the desk, who doesn’t ask any questions Sam won’t know how to answer but says, instead, “Your roommate’s already checked in, Sam. Welcome to Alondra and East FloMo.”

He walks up to 212, where the door’s already open and things are spilled across the floor. A blond looks up from where he’s crouched over a bed, unscrewing something, and immediately says, “Shit, you’re tall. Basketball?” and Sam finds himself smiling. “Geek,” he says, and the blond laughs. “Great! You can help me with math. Name’s Ben. Hope you don’t mind the beds, I’m flipping the springs. You have a side preference?” Sam aches at that, a deep and driving pain, shakes his head. “I’m Sam. And I don’t mind either way,” and sets his things down on the bed already flipped and with fewer piles hovering nearby. He looks around again as Ben finishes up with the bed, studying the rolled up posters lying haphazardly in one corner, the clothes strewn around the closet, the TV and microwave and stereo. Ben catches him looking, says, “Didn’t know what shit you’d be bringing,” and then, eyeing Sam’s things, “You got more on the way? Need help unloading anything?” 

Sam says, “Actually…no. We lost pretty much everything in a fire.” The lie hurts, but it’s true at the same time, and the pity in Ben’s eyes clears when Sam flops on the bed, feet hanging off over the edge, and adds, “Besides, college. Fresh start, all that.” Ben rubs his hands together and says, “Sam, we are going to have _so_ much fun.”

It takes Sam ten minutes to unpack the duffel full of clothes, as Ben’s trying to decide which poster goes where, and fifteen to take everything out of his backpack: notebooks, pens, duct tape, the laptop his dad bought for him last Christmas. Bought for the family, really, but Sam’s the only one who ever used it and no one said anything about it when he was shoving it in the pack. When he plugs the computer in and opens it, turns it on, the welcoming music is ‘Enter Sandman,’ Dean’s idea, and the desktop is a diagram of a zodiacal incantation, something Sam stumbled across while doing research on a mission in New England and found fascinating. Ben, studiously avoiding putting his own collection of band t-shirts and jeans away, looks over Sam’s shoulder, whistles and points at the names of the shortcuts: _verbum, anticipo, imperium tabula_. Latin. Sam wonders if everything he’s going to see or do here, in a new world, a separate world, will remind him of his family. “Just how big a geek are you, man?” Ben asks, and Sam coolly replies, “Full ride plus stipend.” Ben whistles again, claps him on the back, and finally picks up a pair of jeans, telling Sam more than he ever wanted to know about San Diego, Ben’s girlfriend starting up at UC-Berkeley this week, and Ben’s parents, who “swear to God, man, will be paying off the loan for this until they die.” Sam makes the appropriate noises in the appropriate places, and ignores his other duffel, still unpacked. 

\--

He stumbles into his room at some god-awful early hour of the morning, that time of day he’s only ever associated with hunts or nightmares. Ben’s giggling, hanging onto Sam almost limply, and when Sam finally closes and locks the door behind them, Ben laughs, staggers forward and collapses on his bed, somehow kicking his shoes off on the way. “Oh, fuck, Sam. Was that not the fucking _best_ party you’ve ever been to?” Ben asks, whistling through his teeth, and as Sam’s dizzily trying to decide how best to answer, Ben starts snoring. Sam leans over his desk, powers up the laptop, opens his email server. “Yeah,” he says, and deletes the junk mail. He stands up straighter, wobbling a little bit, and looks at the computer for ten minutes before taking the unpacked duffel out from under his bed and setting it on the chair. He opens it, shuts his eyes and catches his breath, feeling a liquor-loosened knot of bone-deep unhappiness start to travel up his throat. He doesn’t cry, but it's close for a moment, then he reaches in the bag and takes out a box of salt. This is when the duct tape comes in handy; no one will question a strip running by the door and another by the window, and so Sam sticks the salt to the tape, then the tape to the floor and sill, whispering the words of a protection spell while he does. Ben’s posters are everywhere, covering the walls, so Sam lifts a corner of each, lightly pencilling a warding rune before sticking it back down. That done, the salt put away, Sam looks at the books in the duffel and leaves them there, rests his eyes on the box holding the knives his father gave him for his sixteenth birthday and the bottle of Holy Water Dean gave him as a graduation present, and then turns away. The duffel gets shoved back under the bed, in the far corner, and Sam goes to bed. He doesn’t sleep until the sun starts to rise and he dreams of fire. 

\--

Sam spends Friday making sure his money’s come through and then promptly uses up a large portion of it on books, clothes, getting a bank account set up as well. It feels permanent, feels adult and responsible, but normal most of all. Normal and safe, and he’s got things of his own now, new things, all sharp and glittering in shrink wrap, with the price-tags still on, never worn or used by anyone else. The books have nothing to do with hunting, the clothes aren’t practical or utilitarian, the snacks aren’t healthy or good for long stake-outs, and Sam has never stepped so far out of his comfort zone. He thinks, putting everything away, waving off Ben’s invitation to another party, that he might actually enjoy this if he didn’t feel so hollow inside. 

\--

Saturday comes and Ben drives off in his little foreign car, heading for Berkeley and his girlfriend, who apparently Sam “would love, man, you’d love her. She’s smart like you, you’d spend all weekend fucking around with, I dunno, rocket science or shit, so maybe it’s a good thing you aren’t going now, but man, you’d love her.” People are all over, so it’s not like it's quiet, Sam’s new housemates stopping by to introduce themselves, and he misses the way silence feels when his dad’s checking the crossbows and Dean’s cleaning the guns and he’s polishing his knives, misses the stillness and premium of movement needed for a hunt. His next-door housemates come through at one point, two kids from the same small town in Texas and taller than him, here on basketball scholarships, and Sam’s not sure whether to feel sorry for Ben, who’ll laugh off being the shortest guy around, or ignore thinking of Dean, who wouldn’t. 

Before he realises it, Sam’s sitting at his desk, email server open and ready to compose a new message. He types in _Dad_ , then stops. He doesn’t know what to say, what he should say, if he even wants to say anything, echoes of _Don’t come back_ ringing in his skull, so he just sits there and stares at the cursor. 

“Hey, you got a hanger?” Sam almost jumps out of his skin at the sudden question, hand reaching for a knife before he has time to remind himself that he’s at college and the knives are under the bed, locked away. There’s a girl standing in the doorway smiling at him and chewing gum, eight miles of leg, as Dean would say, but Dean’s not there and so Sam says, “Just the plastic kind. Why?” She huffs, blows a bubble. “I locked my keys in the car. Was kind of hoping I could spring it with a hanger, but…” she trails off, shrugs, and Sam looks at the laptop, the blinking cursor. He stands up, stretching his legs and hearing them pop. “Got something better," he says, and the girl grins. 

“Awesome. I’d hate to call my dad. He's so worried something awful’s gonna happen to me and I just wanna tell him to get a life sometimes, y’know? Oh, I’m Jessica, but call me Jess. Anything else, I'll kick your ass," she says, sticking out her hand. "Sam," he says, taking it, feeling warm and soft skin underneath his. "You been here long? Got more stuff to bring up?" she asks, peering around him, and Sam feels his heart break again. _If you walk out that door, don’t come back._ "I pack light," he says and shrugs. She looks at him, really looks at him, the way Dean does sometimes -- _did, Sam, Christ. You've left. It’s over. Remember?_ \-- and he thinks that maybe this girl will turn out to be trouble. "Well, c'mon, Sam-who-packs-light. Let's go get my keys."

She’s driving a beat-up old Ford, parked on the grass outside the closest door. All the windows are all the way up, all four doors are locked, and her keys are sitting right there, on the driver's seat. He crouches, bouncing a little, and pulls a Swiss Army knife from his pocket. “Are you serious?” she asks, leaning down to watch him. Sam looks at the lock, opens the knife, and jiggles it in. “Just wait and see,” he says, and before he counts to ten, the lock's sliding up. She looks at him, raises an eyebrow. “Wow. You're good.” Sam laughs and carries her last box upstairs. 

\--

The first month passes by in a blur, Sam falling into a routine of classes, essays, study groups, parties with Ben, dinner down in the FloMo dining hall or coffee in Tressider with Jess, her roommate Becky, and one of the basketball players, called Danny. His life is a mess of statistics that he doesn’t think Ben will ever understand, history classes he could almost teach, SLE classes taught by the most insane graduate student that ever lived, and he’s mostly happy, content, in a way that he’s never felt before. People here are noticing him, making friends with him, and it’s all right if his history prof’s willing to let him into an upperclassmen’s lecture before he’s filled the requirements, all right to try and talk to the people who look interesting, all right if he laughs a little bit too loud and drinks his coffee a little bit too sweet at the CoHo at midnight on Thursdays, all right if he pops the locks of people who leave their keys in their rooms, cars, lockers. It’s starting to feel normal— _he’s_ starting to feel normal, going to Mass with Jess and Becky, drinking beer with Danny and Ben, finding out who he is away from his dad and Dean. 

Still, he knows he’s not normal, not yet. A few people found out about the fire and he’s made up a story about a mother that died in childbirth, a drifter older brother, a Marine father who couldn’t deal with retirement and so drives the country, aimless. He keeps it consistent, never says anything he won’t remember later, and soon Ben’s making jokes about if his family could see him now, showing up a senator’s kid in class, getting tapped by three fraternities. He doesn’t like the jokes at first, feeling a prickling under his skin at hearing people who don’t understand talking so glibly about things they can’t comprehend, but he forgets why, after a while, when he still hasn’t gotten an email or a phone call and some deep part of him feels vindictive. 

They _should_ be proud of him, he thinks at night, years of sleeping not enough, too lightly, odd hours keeping him away until the sky starts to lighten. They should be happy for him, excited by the opportunity he’s been given, and he feels betrayed that they don’t when he meets Ben’s parents, who instantly accept him as one of their own, or when he sits in the library and watches classes change, eyes falling on other students who’d kill to have what he’s been handed. He feels betrayed and then he starts reading again, or writing, or searching for references for his paper, before he can wonder if they feel betrayed by him. It would hurt too much to admit that his chance was taken despite such a high cost, even if he already knows that’s how they viewed it when he told them he was leaving. And they’re both Winchesters like he is—four weeks is not enough to make a difference in the way any of them thinks.


	2. Attraction

Hallowe’en approaches too fast for his liking and he gets jittery as the day marches closer, jittery and jumpy and anxious. Sam tries not to think of other Hallowe’ens, other hunts, all the things that can and do go wrong on such a supernaturally-charged night. He can’t sit still for long, not unless he’s in class and barely even then, so he goes running, miles and miles every day, two and three times a day, besides the compulsive studying, the work, as if he can distract himself in ancient history. Nothing happens, the exercise doesn’t help and the studying doesn’t sidetrack his attention, but he’s more focused now, like he’s hunting something but he’s not quite sure what, not yet. 

As he’s sitting in Alondra’s lounge on October 29, trying to concentrate on Cato, he feels it again, that creeping sensation of something getting closer, hunter’s instincts waking up, flaring, as if he can’t decide whether he’s the predator or the prey. Sam stares unseeing at the book, words blurring together as the hair on the back of his neck stands straight up. It passes while he’s trying to focus on a sight-sigil, and he swears under his breath. 

“What was that?” Jess asks, plopping down next to him on the sofa, curling up her knees to her chin and giving him a look. “I didn’t think you knew how to cuss,” she adds, wearing an angelic smile. Sam laughs, dog-ears the corner of his page, and says, “That’s not true,” as if he’s offended she would think something like that of him. “You hear me swear all the goddamn time.” She laughs, then, and lays her head on Sam’s shoulder, and a moment later he makes a big show of moving her flyaway blonde hair away from his mouth. “Sam,” she says, and he groans, hearing the tone. It’s the same tone that gets him into trouble every time she pulls it out and he doesn’t need to miss another lecture or forego studying for the next exam or go scope out the coolest new club in ‘Frisco. “Whatever it is, Jess, no. A thousand times _no_.” But then she pouts and makes this little keening, whining noise, like she’s a puppy who can’t hold it any longer, and he cracks in seconds, asking, “What is it this time? Not that I’m agreeing.” Jess stops, sits up and beeps his nose. “Not yet,” she says, “but just wait. You got major professorial permission for this one,” and damn if that doesn’t intrigue him. 

“You’ve heard of the Game, right?” she asks, and Sam rolls his eyes. “Okay, okay,” she says, “stupid question. Have you heard of the all-frosh Game?” Sam looks at her like she’s insane, says, “Jess, I don’t know what planet you’ve been on, but that’s all Becky’s talked about for the past two weeks and you _are_ on her team. Give me a little credit for listening when your roommate talks.” But then Jess says, “And you know Danny agreed to be on her team, but he’s got a game down in San Diego?” Sam starts to nod, then stops, studies Jess’ face, and starts shaking his head instead. “No, Jess. Absolutely not.” 

She pouts, and, not for the first time, Sam wonders if he looked anything like she does when Dean accused him of doing the same thing. Not for the first time, Sam has to physically shake his head to dispel the thought, the image of his brother. “Jess,” he sighs, and she pokes him in the shoulder. “Sam, come _on_. Becky’s already asked crazy Kate and she said it was all right if you missed lectures the next two days, and you already know the history department’s all over this one.” She stops long enough for him to say, “Jess,” again, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose in an appeal for patience, but she starts right back up. “We all know you’re a crazy-insane genius and Danny said if anyone could fill his place better than he can, you could, and they only didn’t want to ask because you’re, like, insanely superstitious, but _please_ , Sam, Becky and I _need_ you; we’ve only got Roger and you know what he’s like and if you don’t say yes then we’ll have to ask Ben and he can’t even do his own laundry.” 

She stops, looks at him sideways, and asks, “Why d’you hate Hallowe’en, anyway?” It’s not a huge leap in the topic, but Sam’s thrown-off track enough to say, “I have a bad relationship with the day. Shit’s always going down,” before he can stop himself. Jess narrows her eyes, looks at him again, as if she’s trying to see through his skull to read his mind and it makes him think _Dean_ before he can stop himself. “Don’t you wanna be with your best friends if it goes down this year?” Jess asks quietly and Sam exhales, focused on her and not Dean. She’s got a point, fuck it, her and Becky and Roger would never survive a black dog or were or spirit and he’d be damned if he’s going to let any creature intrude on the life he’s painstakingly carving out for himself here. “Yeah,” he says, “okay. I’ll do it,” expecting her to smile and leave, mission accomplished, let the countdown begin, but she doesn’t. Her eyebrows draw a little closer together, one corner of her mouth tilts down, she murmurs, “What happened before to make that argument work?” and the two of them sit in the lounge, not speaking, until Becky and Danny come down to find them for dinner an hour later. 

\--

Sam never realised, even after hearing everybody talk about it, that the Game was such a big deal, but as soon as everyone finds out he’s on a team, people are congratulating him, giving him tips, glancing his way. Becky admits at dinner that she already submitted his name as a qualified replacement to the History Department, who’s apparently the visible Game Control, and Danny laughs when Sam turns a glare on Becky. She quickly changes the subject, beginning a crash course intro to the Game while Jess flings peas at Sam. 

They’re starting at Tressider in the morning, six am, and Becky says they’ll be meeting Roger just outside. She and Jess are excited, if not a little nervous, with kick-off in a measly eleven hours and Sam can’t muster up the same enthusiasm. He goes to bed right after dinner and his dreams are filled with a fire he almost thinks is real when he wakes up at three. After a moment of blind panic, Sam catches his breath and stops groping under the pillow for a knife or gun. Ben flops over, muttering something about the Chargers and starts snoring again, the light whuffing noises that Sam’s learned mean a deep sleep he could scream at but never scratch the surface of. Another thing Sam envies about his roommate, but he tries not to dwell on it as he showers and dresses quickly, taking a granola bar and leaving. 

He goes off-campus to the Catholic church and slips in quietly, hunter-silent, crossing himself with Holy Water before finding a pew and sliding in. He kneels and begins to pray, feeling the weight of silver crosses in his pocket, silver knives on his legs, tucked into his boots, his favourite curling against the small of his back. “Our Father,” he whispers under his breath, eyes closed, “who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name.” He whispers the prayer ten times over, pausing at, “Deliver us from evil,” every time, pausing and stumbling and meaning the words with his whole heart. When he opens his eyes, the priest is at the altar and he beckons Sam forward, who obeys and kneels at the front. The priest begins the ritual of exhortation for departing soldiers and when Sam finally looks up to receive the Host, the priest’s eyes are wise and knowing. Sam swallows the wafer, drinks the wine, and stands up to receive the blessing. When the priest is done, Sam says, not at peace but feeling more prepared, “Thank you, Father,” and his voice is strong. 

At a quarter to six, he’s sitting outside of Tressider, wide-awake and trying not to laugh at his three yawning, stumbling teammates, who glare at him when they see how awake he is. “Batshit in-fucking-sane,” Becky says, poking him in the chest with a finger, and Sam can’t stop the cheerful tone when he says, “So who’s ready to not sleep for the next fifty hours?”


	3. Romance

There are seven teams of four people each, all freshman. Sam’s history professor is standing at the front of the conference room with a steaming cup of coffee, looking through a sheaf of notes. At six, he clears his throat and all twenty-eight Game players stop talking and turn their attention to the front. “Welcome to the All-Frosh Hallowe’en Game,” he says, and then, “No, it would be far too easy to make this a Hallowe’en theme, so you’ll have to think sideways from that.” Sam, used to deciphering his father’s cryptic lessons and run-around-the-topic texts, remembers the odd wording. 

The professor explains the rules, tells them they have thirty-eight hours, start to finish, to decipher all twenty four clues and then the theme clue, in time for the after-party. Each team’s already been assigned a number and they’ll be given the first clue in numeric order, in twenty minute increments. Becky’s already checked their package, signed out the laptop and GPS-enabled phone, gone through the references to see if any of them can suss out a connection, and they’re the fourth team to get the first clue. 

As they’re walking out of Tressider, to Jess’ car, Becky hands the clue back to Sam and Roger. Sam looks it over and starts laughing, says, “Ramos Park.” Becky and Jess, in front of him, stop and turn around, Becky’s hands on her hips, Jess’ eyes narrowed. “What,” Becky says, and Sam hands Jess the paper. “ _As I know not whence I come, so I know not whither I go. I know only that, in leaving this world, I fall forever either into annihilation or into the hands of an angry God, without knowing to which of these two states I shall be forever assigned. Such is my state, full of weakness and uncertainty_ ,” he quotes, and Becky’s gaping as Jess tilts her head to one side and asks, in that quiet tone she gets sometimes when Sam’s presented her with a mystery about his past with no ready answers, “What?” 

Sam says, “It’s the quote with all the blanks filled in. Section 193 of Pascal’s _Pense És_. Except look,” he says, and points at the clue-sheet. “It’s from section 193, not 27-46-1-39-8. And if you add the right section number together, which is four, and translate the section to French,” Roger cuts in here, says with dawning comprehension, “And then take the fourth letter corresponding to the section number they gave us.” He trails off and the two girls exchange glances. Becky snorts, shakes her head, presses the clue in Jess’ hand, and turns around to continue the trek to Jess’ car, Roger following at a steady jog, while Jess holds Sam’s gaze and the clue-sheet both. “Why did you memorise Pascal?” she asks, and Sam half-smiles, replies, “I didn’t,” so she says, “Why did you memorise that section?” His smile falls but his gaze doesn’t, and she studies that before asking, “And why the French?” He shrugs and opens his mouth to remind her that Pascal was French, but feels the strange sensation of being watched and knows that the prickling crawling up his spine’s not caused by another human. “Let’s go,” he says, already moving and placing one hand on the small of Jess’ back to get her going, as the other hand hooks into his pocket and curls around one of the crosses. “What?” Jess asks, and Sam nods at the car, idling in the parking lot, brights flashing. “Becky and Roger are waiting for us.”

The feeling skitters over his neck and shoulders until they get in the car and Sam finds out that he’s been given the laptop and cell phone in the backseat. “Come on, crazy genius,” Roger says from the front passenger seat, holding a map, “call Game Control and confirm,” and as Sam dials, Jess finally asks, “Why am I not driving? This _is_ my car.” Becky, pulling onto El Camino, looks in the rear-view and says, “Because you and Sammy-boy picked the lousiest shit piece of time to have a heart-to-heart,” and then flashes her most angelic smile. Jess rolls her eyes and Sam closes the phone and opens the laptop, double-clicking on the spreadsheet application. “Control says we’re the first to check in,” he says, concertedly not looking at Jess, “and we’re on the right course. Also said to document everything, so I’m…going to document,” and then the laptop catches a wireless signal that holds. He eyes the Internet Explorer icon in the quick-start menu, then ignores it, names the spreadsheet ‘game1’ and starts inputting. 

\--

It’s still dark when they get to the park, dark but lightening, and Sam calms down a little with every bit of red and gold threading the horizon and stretching into the sky. Roger finds the clue, a CD, pops it in the computer which Sam’s lugging around like a life-preserver, and a music program automatically opens and plays three minutes of a painful choral song. The four team-mates look at each other while the music plays, and then afterwards. “Right,” Becky says after a moment. “Ideas?” Sam frowns, taps the play button, forwards the song a minute and a half in. He lets it play for twenty seconds and then pauses it and looks at Roger, who, for all of his geekiness is a classic rock buff whose ear could put Dean to shame. Sam’s jaw clenches as he forcibly doesn’t think about what Dean would say if he knew his baby brother was playing a stupid game on two of the most dangerous nights of the year, and he misses what Roger says. “Sam,” Rogers says, and Sam looks at his teammate, eyebrow raised in question above eyes expressing apology. “AC/DC,” Roger says, and Sam groans. Of course, the ‘Back in Black’ album, one of Dean’s favourites. No wonder it sounds familiar; he’s only listened to it eight zillion times. 

They play the file again and Sam and Roger argue about which track plays in which order, Becky typing what they agree on while the guys have their eyes closed and their fingers are drumming on the hood of the car. After they’ve decided on a final list, Sam shakes his head. “No clue. It doesn’t make sense.” Roger looks at the list a bit longer, but shakes his head as well and the next team arrives to pick up another copy of the CD. “Come _on_ ,” Becky pleads, “come on, come on, come on. We’re losing our lead here. You guys have to know this.” Jess asks, “What’s the file name?” and Sam and Roger look at each other and sigh almost in unison when Becky says, “Tau lepton.” 

“Get in,” Roger says and Jess steals her keys back, going around to the driver’s side as the other three pile in haphazardly. “Where am I going?” she asks, and Roger laughs. “Menlo Park,” he says, “the SLAC,” and Becky asks, “Why? Care to explain it to those of us who don’t listen to hair metal?” Roger lays it out and Sam types in the details, trying to figure out the connection between Pascal and AC/DC, between seventeenth century French theological philosophy and rock music, and comes up empty-handed apart from _Dean_.

\--

Sam doesn’t want to get out of the car, but the others jump to the pavement with no problem, so of course he has to follow. The feeling of ‘paranormal’ is stronger here, so strong that Sam’s eyes are flicking around, trying to see whatever’s behind the odd crawling sensation before anyone else does. His three teammates spread out over the parking lot, Sam flanking them, watching their backs with one hand on a cross and the other ready to reach for a knife. He thinks it feels like a spirit, like fingernails grating on a chalkboard just outside, underneath, the range of audible sound, rather than a were, and none of the more complicated creatures would be able to resist four college kids, not for this long. A wendigo or unhcegila would have come after at least one of them by now, the sun’s out now anyway and vampires don’t even exist. 

Becky starts shrieking and jumping up and down in frustration, and Sam wants nothing more than to take her by the shoulders and shake her, tell her they have more things to worry about than finding the clue, but the feeling of wrongness grows until it's almost too thick to breathe, and then breaks, disappears. Sam’s left standing there, listening to nothing except Becky, who’s still shrieking, and Jess, who’s trying to calm her roommate down. “It’s only the second clue,” Jess is saying as Sam jogs over to them, “and we have hours and hours to figure this out. Give it a few more minutes and then we’ll call Game Control.” Becky huffs but calms down and by the time Sam’s standing in the circle again, she says, “Why are we here again?” Sam opens his mouth to make a smart-ass comment about manipulative friends and beds back in the dorms that they should all be in, but Becky glares at him and so Sam smiles innocently and says nothing. 

“It was AC/DC,” Roger says, “their ‘Back in Black’ album. All the songs from the album were on the file, but out of order. The file name was a key, and using that to count every third letter and rearranging them, the words were ‘Menlo Park,' with the initials for the Stanford Linear Accelorator Center left over.’” Sam frowns, says, “First Ramos Park, then Menlo Park, and now we’re in a parking lot. Connection?” Jess pipes up, says, “Actually, the guard sent us to a parking unit, didn’t he? I thought that was an odd term, but maybe it was part of the clue.” 

Becky’s eyes narrow as she murmurs, “Ramos, Menlo, unit,” a few times, and then goes back to the car for a piece of paper. She writes the letters down as the other three watch, then crosses out the reoccurring letters. What’s left doesn’t make any sense, not until she gives them numbers and Sam puts a couple of commas in the mix. “Co-ordinates,” he says, and Becky searches through their reference pack for a map. They plot the points, Sam and Becky, while Jess and Roger look on, Becky marks an ‘x’ and Sam double checks it before nodding. “Right,” Becky says, rubbing her hands together and sporting a very wicked grin. “Let’s go.” As they pull out of the Center, they pass two other teams just arriving. 

\--

By eleven that night, they’re a third of the way through the clue-set. Becky’s had a nervous breakdown every half-hour and is beginning to show signs of fatigue, though she’s already had five cups of coffee in the past hour. Jess and Roger are about to kill their team captain, Sam knows, noticing the way Jess has become less sympathetic to Becky’s hysterics and taking in Roger’s clenched jaw. The way they’re sitting, Roger driving now, Jess sitting next to him, Sam and Becky in the backseat, makes Sam think of long days of moving, leaving town, after long nights of hunting, all those times when he sat in the back and complained while his dad drove, white-knuckled and silent, and Dean looked out of the window, face tight and posture radiating fury. 

He wonders, one arm around Becky, why he’s thought so much about his family over the course of the day, but as he uses his free hand to scroll through their typed notes, he smiles to himself. This is a hunt as well, just of a different sort, one his dad and Dean would find impossibly academic but which he prefers, no killing, but it’s also a hunt like the ones he’s been on since he was nine—something is out there, getting stronger as the moonrise on All Hallow’s Eve draws nearer. It’s a spirit, he caught a glimpse of ghostly white earlier, and he’s been trying to find out what or who might have a reason to haunt this area, using the computer when he has the chance, but he’s not sure why the spirit’s coming out now or even how it managed to attach itself to their group.

\--

The most recent clue they solve sends them up to Berkeley, and Roger notes it’s a good thing it’s so late, so there won’t be as much traffic, but when they arrive and head to Clark Kerr Campus, the car brakes suddenly and all four gape. There’s obviously something big going on, based on all the cars parked outside, and Sam’s stomach is sinking at the thought that the people those cars belong to are all somehow connected to the Game. Jess pulls out their Game pass and leaves it on the dash as Roger just parks at the curb and the four go inside. A girl’s waiting in the hallway, one of the history department’s graduate students from Stanford, and as Becky’s eyeing the table of coffee and donuts, the girl says, “Congratulations, team four. You’re the first to arrive.” That gets Becky’s attention and she snaps into proud team captain mode, says, “Thank you,” and “We’d hoped we were leading.” The girl smiles and says, “ _Fortes Daedalos adjuvat_ ,” and then gestures to the four closed doors behind her. “Your team captain will choose one of the doors and the four of you must stick together. If you successfully reach the end, you will receive your next clue.” 

She steps to the side, then, and Sam’s teammates turn to him. “Daedalus favours the brave,” he says, before they can ask, and then adds, “But that’s not right, because Daedalus was a Greek myth, not a Roman one.” Jess swats him on the arm and says, “Oh, you idiot,” with some amount of fondness, which makes Sam look at her in surprise, raising an eyebrow. “Daedalus built a maze for King Minos, and we’re meant to be brave or bold.” Becky asks, “A maze?” and Jess grins. “This time of year? I’d say haunted house, and we were given instructions as well.” Roger says, “Stick together, right? And Daedalus, too, having to tie the wings to himself and Icarus, tying the wings together with thread and wax.” Becky points at the three other Game-players, tells them, “Find tape or rope or something so we can tie ourselves together—stop smirking, Roger—while I go and drink every cup of coffee on that table.”

Ten minutes later, they’re walking through the fourth door in single file, Sam first, and half of the coffee behind them’s gone. It’s pitch black inside, but where his three teammates are starting to panic at the lack of light and the smell of smoke, Sam inhales and listens. Movement ahead and to the left, and Sam lets his hunting instincts and years of training flow to the surface and dance across his muscles. He leans back enough to whisper to Roger, “Someone ahead, on the left, and further on down on the right.” Roger whispers, “How can you _hear_ that?” Sam shakes his head, turns around, and smack’s Roger’s head with his free hand before leading them right to the person waiting, wearing black and a skeletal mask. Sam’s pleased to see it is actually a person, though he’s puzzled by what the person says. “Scylla or Charybdis?”

Jess, behind Roger, mutters under her breath, “Yes, _Ulysses_ , we get that,” and Becky elbows her. “Oh, come on,” Jess whines, “Daedalus? Scylla and Charybdis? What’s next, Penelope?” The woman dressed in black laughs and then quickly stifles her giggles, but Sam’s hearing noises and smelling ozone. He half-turns in the darkness and sees quicksilver movement out of the corner of his eyes, like the afterimage of sunspots. His fingers flex in the duct tape and he’s so tempted to take the tape off, because the ghost-spirit’s still here, still close, but Becky’s come around to his side, leaving Jess and Roger to complete the forced circle. “So. Think _Ulysses_ ,” Becky says, and they shuffle forward to the next person, who’s holding a ring of keys and an oar. “Left Bank or Right?” he says, and Sam says, “Charon?” Roger frowns, says, “But that’s Paris, not Dublin,” and Jess says, “Joyce went through Paris. But it could be choices, couldn’t it? Scylla and Charybdis, left or right, the option of which door, how to stick together.”

There’s one more person to find, but it takes them what seems like hours. They find themselves running into walls, dead ends, and Jess keeps saying, every time Becky or Sam says left or right, “Choices.” The last person’s wearing all white, complete with wings and a halo, and asks, “Yes or no?” Jess laughs again and this time says, “Oh, God. It _is_ Penelope!” 

Another ten minutes and they’re blinking in the sudden light of the hallway, having successfully navigated the labyrinth. A different girl than the one from before is standing behind another table covered in coffee and six types of strudel. Becky goes over as soon as she smells the caffeine and the other three stumble along at the unexpected action, all wearing various expressions of amusement. “We did it,” Becky says after inhaling two styrafoam cups of heavily-sweetened coffee. “Give us our clue.” The girl smiles and says, “Zurich or Trieste?”

They drive to Arastradero Preserve and hike Acorn Trail after Jess gets Becky to agree that that’s where they’ll find the next clue. Sam calls Game Control on the way, who says that they’re on the right track and only have nineteen hours left to solve the remaining clues, and Sam doesn’t tell Becky that, only that Jess is right. She’s driving and he and Becky are in the back, apparently the current agreed-upon seating arrangement, and Jess looks in the rearview mirror and winks at Sam, says, “Of course I am.”


	4. Passion

Roger has his first moment of sleep-deprived frenzy at three, in Half Moon Bay, Jess at seven in San Mateo. Becky’s not talking unless she’s just had coffee and the floor of Jess’ car is covered in Starbuck’s cups and empty cans of energy drinks. Sam’s tried telling them that caffeine only makes it worse, but he almost got thrown out of a moving car on the 280 last time so he’s learned to keep his mouth shut. After the sun’s risen and they’re driving to South San Francisco along with a million other people, Sam’s the only one even vaguely awake, and the other passengers have taken to glaring daggers at him. For the first time since the Game began, he thinks he’s lucky to have lived with his father, because Roger’s yawning look of disapproval could never live up the look his father gave Sam not even three months ago, and Becky’s red-rimmed eyes are no match for Dean’s. The thought starts a mental derailment of ‘Things Dad and Dean Taught Me,’ that travels through AC/DC to Pascal to navigating mazes in the dark, and even if he hated the lifestyle, he can’t deny it’s come in handy more than once over the past twenty-seven hours. 

The trick, he’s learning, is being able to hide what he’s doing. Becky’s caught him searching the internet for local Bay Area legends more than once, just as Roger’s asked if Sam needed to see a chiropractor after one too many checks of the knife tucked in his jeans. Still, he’s managed to find two possibilities: either an unhappy miner from the ’49 gold rush who dislikes kids trampling all over his former home or one of the old SRI International scientists, who committed suicide in the fifties after his work in the Manhattan project, unhappy because Roger’s actually hoping to go into nuclear physics. The latter would explain why the ghost has only come after their group, but Sam knows he can’t exactly contact the other teams to see if they’ve spotted orbs or smelt cold lightning. He’s prepared for when the ghost makes a move, like they always do, carrying small restaurant-sized packets of salt in his back pocket and a lighter in the other, but he doesn’t know about bones or burial places or other weaknesses, which worries him. 

As Jess merges on to the 380, Sam opens up his email provider, types in Dean’s address this time and not his father’s, and then tabs down to the main textbox. He doesn’t know what to say, and by the time he’s tossed out, ‘Your AC/DC fetish came in handy yesterday,’ ‘Been tracking a ghost—you heard anything about one here?’ and ‘Try not to get in the way of a pissed-off poltergeist this Hallowe’en,’ Roger’s had Jess pull into a parking space and the rest of Sam’s friends are getting out of the car. He exits Internet Explorer and closes the laptop’s lid, message not written and not sent, and follows the other three in a dual attempt to keep them from exploding and to help puzzle out the next clue, pointedly not thinking about the spirit. 

\--

They’re in downtown San Francisco, in Union Square, walking to the V.C. Morris Gift shop where the answer of their current clue awaits along with the next puzzle. Sam hurries to catch up with the others, keeping track of them by focusing on Jess’ hair, falling out of a loose, two-hour old ponytail, and he bumps into someone heading north. “Excuse me,” he says immediately, and looks at the woman. She’s staring at him, open-mouthed, and he’s not sure if she understood him, so he says, “Sorry about that,” and makes to move around her. “Lanmò-mennen,” she breathes, and Sam thinks he recognises the Creole but he doesn’t understand the words. He gives her a puzzled look and asks, “Excuse me?” but she finally shakes her head and smiles at him. “Remember me, someday,” she says and disappears into the crowded sidewalk, waving at him and giving him a brief glimpse of a rune-covered palm as she goes. Sam stares after her for a moment, tries to pick her out in the crowd, but he can’t, so he shakes his head and goes after his team.

Later, when they’re back in the car and heading down the 280 for Lake Lag, he looks up the words and feels a momentary stab of pleasure for having correctly identified the language as Creole, but the words make no sense to him, just some derivatives of ‘fire’ and ‘cleanse,’ and as he lays back in his seat and stares at the car’s roof, he wonders why she said them, what they mean. His eyes close and he’s almost asleep when Becky says, “You’ve cracked,” and pokes his shoulder, and Sam laughs a little too loudly as Roger shakes his head and Jess just keeps on driving. 

\--

Six o’clock on Hallowe’en night and they’re at Palo Alto Airport, two hours to go and this clue and the theme clue left. Sam’s the only consistently conscious one, so he’s taken over the driving and calls Game Control to check in, running just fine on five hours of sleep for going on forty hours. Becky’s sleeping in the car every chance she can get, having given up on the coffee during their lunchtime stop for food, when she looked at her drive-through cup of Starbuck’s and solemnly proclaimed that it tasted like piss-water. No one really believed her, because it had six extra shots of espresso in it, as well as half of Brazil’s gross exports in sugarcane, but Jess and Roger haven’t had any more since then either, and they’re sleeping at every given opportunity as well. Apart from five minutes here and there, Sam’s still going, still hunting both the Game’s conclusion and their ghost, and while one’s going well, the other’s not. He hasn’t been able to find out anything and no one he’s asked or mentioned it to, both his teammates and other people associated with the Game, can offer any answers. 

It’s all colliding in his head, the Game, the ghost, the words the woman in San Francisco said, this urgent clawing need to swallow his pride and talk to his father, if not his brother, and so when he looks at the clue and the words run together, blurring in his vision, Sam growls and stalks away from the others, taking the computer with him. He slams the laptop down on a chair, then collapses onto the chair next to it, sitting bent over, head in hands for a few achingly long minutes. It’s quiet and calm, and he can feel his breathing even out, turn from quick and shallow to low and full, and feels the descent into focus as if he’s holding it, tangible, in his hands. It’s the focus he’s come to associate with breathing before exams, or when he needs to concentrate, and it comes fast now, a fast and steady slide where it used to take a battle of willpower, and he’s wondered before if this is where his father and Dean live, in this mode, this place of silence and stillness. Instead of thinking about it again, he breathes and gets himself under control, feels the weight of the knife at his back and knows his teammates can crack under the pressure of no sleep and no rest and no break from the constant need to keep going, but he can’t, because he knows the consequences would be so much worse. 

When he looks up again, Becky and Roger are huddled over the clue sheet and Jess is pointing at arrival and departure boards, talking to her teammates or the boards themselves, Sam isn’t sure which, or why, or what she’s saying. He picks the computer up from the seat next to him and opens it, waiting for the now-familiar click of circuits firing and programs opening. Out of habit, he double-clicks on the internet application and then types in the address of his email provider, followed by his username and password, and when he sees a message from an unknown sender with the subject line ‘hunting 101 for idiots,’ he almost drops the laptop. It takes him a second or eight of looking, as if the message might disappear when he blinks, like a mirage, before he opens it, and when he reads the email, he wants to laugh and cry at the same time, so he settles for reading it again and then closing the laptop and rejoining the other three, who have figured out the clue and are ready to go. 

\--

_Sammy, on the way. I’ll bring the shovel, you bring the salt._

\--

As he’s in the backseat of the car, on the road back to Stanford and Tressider, Sam thinks that maybe he should have emailed back, asked Dean what the specifics are, told his brother not to come because Sam’s got everything under control and the ghost’s been haunting _his_ friends, he can salt and burn the stupid bones himself, thank you very much. He doesn’t, though, doesn’t even touch the laptop except to hold it, keep it from falling. To see Dean, to see his brother, to have Dean see him, here, like this, with friends and a place in a world beyond hunting, living for more than the day-to-day kill, far outweighs the need to assert his independence again and the fear he feels at letting Dean into this world. He wants to see Dean, and yet he doesn’t, for more reasons than the hunt and Stanford, because seeing his brother will make everything real, including the fact that he left and Dean stayed behind with eyes that spoke volumes when the mouth stayed silent. 

He doesn’t reply to the email and he doesn’t say anything to Becky, who’s driving down Embarcadero like a madwoman possessed, one hour and one clue to go, no idea if the other teams are already done or right behind them. When they pull in the parking lot, Becky leaves the car running as she jumps out and hightails it inside, back to the conference room where this whole thing began yesterday morning, Roger hot on her heels. Jess leans over from the front passenger seat and turns the engine off, pulls her keys out of the ignition and looks back at Sam, who’s holding the closed laptop in his hands, on his knees, as if he’s physically unable to let it go. She raises an eyebrow, jingles the keys in one hand and says, “Coming?” Sam, startled out of his thoughts, laughs, gets out of the car, and brings the computer with him, hoping Game Control has either a plug for it or another extra battery. 

He and Jess get to the conference room to see that Becky’s already commandeered a section of one table, loaded it with coffee and candy, and Roger’s sitting in one chair watching as his team captain moves a printer from one side of their room to their apparent command post. “Print the file, four copies,” she orders Sam, who carries the laptop over, plugs it in, and does as directed. All four of them have a copy of their Game-play notes in three minutes and the history professor comes in, writes one word on the dry-erase board, and leaves again. They all say the word at the same time, hours of sleep-deprived and space-deficient companionship making them think and react like one person saying, “Phoenix” in four different intonations. “Phoenix,” Roger says again, and the next five minutes are spent shuffling paper, mixing up letters and numbers, studying place names, consulting their references. 

“All of the clues are from the 1800s until today,” Roger finally says, “but putting them in chronological order doesn’t help.” Jess nods, says, “Neither does turning letters into numbers and then back again.” Becky growls under breath and says, “None of the places we’ve been seem to have anything to do with each other,” and Sam looks at the word on the board again, mouthing it before he pauses, frowns, and pulls out their Game Control-given collection of maps. With the others looking on, Sam plots each place they’ve been to and connects the dots, forming a vague eight-sided shape. Jess pulls her notes back out and assigns each corner a number to represent alphabetic order and Roger adds a comma and another number for chronological order. When each place has two numbers and there are sixteen in all, Becky writes those down on another piece of paper and says, “I don’t know if this is going to work,” just like she’s said at every clue-site, but this time Sam bites his lower lip and nods. “The numbers don’t make sense,” he says, “and we’ve already had the cipher clues to puzzle out. I don’t think they’d repeat solving systems.” 

Then he remembers the curious wording of the professor yesterday morning, urging them to think sideways from Hallowe’en and he looks at the sheet of numbers. Assigning each number a letter’s become second nature after the past two days, and by shifting and rearranging dates to fit the pattern, Sam can actually spell ‘Hallowe’en.’ “Think sideways,” he reminds them, and the next twenty minutes sees them tangle with variations on the code Sam’s used, other teams starting to come in and hover, whisper, in their own corners. Becky starts shaking her head, says in a low voice, “Sam, it isn’t working,” and lays her head down on her arms, on the table. 

He sees the moment when it hits her, asks, “Becky ?” and watches as her eyes widen. “Sideways,” she murmurs, and looks at the three others. “Not the cipher, the image.” She reaches out and turns the drawn-on map, and Sam sees the eight-sided shape coalesce into an arrow, with the tip pointing southeast. The numbers take on a different significance then and Roger whirls through calculations at a speed Sam didn’t think was possible, as tired as Roger’s been looking. When Roger’s done, he writes the answer on a piece of scrap paper and pushes that to the middle of their little huddle, just as the professor enters the room and says, “Half an hour left.” Becky studies the scrap, the one word written there in sloppy, over-tired letters, looks at Sam and Jess, who both nod, and goes up to the front of the room, whispering the word in his ear. “We have a winner,” he says, the other teams watching, and Becky shrieks, running for her team, all of whom look shocked. Sam finds himself in a group hug and not even the sight of the laptop on the table, visible over the curve of Jess’ shoulder, and what it represents, can take away the feeling of accomplishment, of pride, of sheer relief that this is _over_. 

As they start packing their things away, the other teams are working like crazy people, fuelled by a final rush of endorphins and adrenaline to finish this, a matter of pride now and not bragging rights. Sam emails Dean, just his cell number and a _Call me when you get here_ before he cleans everything off of the laptop, Game notes and internet histories, as Roger clears the phone and Jess is separating Game resources from their hodge-podge of notes. Becky’s still jumping up and down, going over to each of her team members at odd times and giving them hugs, telling them, “You were awesome,” and “I knew we could do it.” Sam smiles back, silent and thinking of the ghost and what seeing Dean will be like, whether his father will be coming as well or if dad’s still upset. _Don’t come back_ , and he’s not going to, but he never expected that would mean his family would come here, to Stanford, to this life. 

Time runs out and four of the other teams managed to figure out the theme in the allowed thirty-eight hours. Only two out of the seven didn’t finish, and Sam thinks that anyone could walk into this room, even his brother, and know which groups made it and which didn’t, which team won and secured themselves a label that will, Sam’s been assured by Becky, follow them through their years at Stanford and perhaps even beyond. The All-Frosh Game winners are congratulated by the history professor who shakes their hands in turn and tells Sam to stop by his office next week, before the professor tells all twenty-eight competitors where the faculty-sponsored Game Hallowe’en party’s at and that they need to make a token appearance, costumes optional. Sam’s ready to put this all behind him and catch a few hours of sleep before Dean arrives, but Jess and Becky won’t let him go. They drag him to the official party, where everyone who helped plan, who role-played, and who participated talk about the clues and laugh about the answers. Sam has a drink in one hand and the other on his phone, leaning against a wall and waiting for Dean to call. 

After an hour of mingling, Jess comes over to where Sam is standing and talking to one of the people from team two, another freshman in the SLE program, about the first clue. Sam’s saying, “And of course it didn’t make sense for it to be _that_ section until after the theme clue, so it really came full-circle,” as Jess slides a hand up his arm and says, “A bunch of us are going over to Liz’s place. She’s having a party and we’ve all been invited. Wanna come along?” Sam shakes his head, but Jess says, “Wasn’t asking you, crazy genius; you’re coming,” and Sam doesn’t know whether to scowl at the nickname or the assumption that he’d go, the order that reminded him of his father and that is just not a comparison he wants to make when Jess is standing there, biting her lower lip and giving him the puppy-dog eyes. “Jess, I’m _tired_ ,” he begins, but the other Game player laughs and says, “C’mon, Sam. We’re all exhausted. When are we leaving?”

\--

Liz is a friend of theirs, another freshman who lives off-campus in a Palo Alto house her rich daddy bought for her when she started school. Actually, it might be more truthful, Sam thinks as they try and find a place to park, to say that Liz is everyone’s friend, thanks to the generosity her father’s money allows her and the good-nature her stepmother’s strictness gave her. She has money but never flaunts the fact and Sam’s always had a soft spot for Liz because of that, that and the way her smile seems to hold an edge of sad awareness that he can almost understand. 

People are coming and going, some in costumes, some from the Game, and when Sam and Jess walk in, Liz’s face brightens up from across the noisy and dark room, right before she excuses her way over to them. “Sam!” she shouts, and he sees that Liz’s been drinking, the arch underneath her eyebrows is as flushed as her cheeks, and he hugs her tight, holding her a second too long in order to help her catch her breath and balance. “Hey, you,” he says, soft, and Jess says, “Great party, Liz,” in a flatter tone than Sam’s heard over the past two days. He looks at Jess, question in his eyes, but Liz giggles drunkenly and hugs Jess as well, saying something about ‘all yours’ and ‘no competition’ and ‘cuddly brother’ that Sam doesn’t quite hear and can’t quite put together. It makes Jess relax, though, and when Liz wanders off in the direction of the kitchen, Jess turns to Sam and smiles, all teeth and cheekbones, and Sam feels completely over his head in a way that striking out on his own never did. 

“Drink?” she asks him, and ignores Sam as he tries to say no, that complete over-exhaustion and alcohol is not a good combination, in favour of finding the kegs. Strangely enough, when he’s on his second plastic cup half an hour later, laughing with friends and his arm around Jess’ shoulders, he doesn’t really mind.


	5. Intimacy

His phone goes off just after midnight, a sound he would have missed if he hadn’t been in the bathroom, ears ringing from the noise downstairs. Without thinking, he finishes drying his hands off and pulls the phone out of his pocket, and it’s only when he sees the caller that it all comes back to him and his heart skips a beat. He’d managed to forget about the ghost, about the hunt, about _Dean_ in the company of friends, the sounds of conversation and laughter, the smell of spilt beer and Jess’ hair and skin clinging to his nostrils, and for a split-second he feels white-hot resentment, quickly followed by shame and guilt. “Dean,” he says when he finally pushes the ‘talk’ button. “Where are you?” There’s silence for a moment, and Sam says, “Dean?” There’s a noise that Sam can’t identify on the other end, but then he hears his brother’s voice for the first time in months and something inside of him slots home. “Sam, this city’s roads are fucked up. Tell me where you and how to get there before I leave tire-tracks in these lawns.” Sam laughs, a knot inside of his chest loosening, and says, “Where are you?” 

Dean’s close to Stanford, so Sam gives him directions to Liz’s house and then goes back downstairs to try and leave. Jess isn’t too happy and insists on driving him back to FloMo, but Sam turns on the charm and his own set of sweetly innocent eyes and has her convinced that it’s just his superstition, that he’s already called a cab, that he’d feel guilty if she went home before she wanted to because of him. She settles back into the sofa and he goes to find Liz, thank her for everything, and when he finally walks outside to the street, he can hear the rumble of a familiar engine turning at the corner. The Impala stops in front of him and Sam bends down to look through the passenger side window. Only Dean, and his chest aches, _Don’t come back_ , but Dean’s giving him this look that says, _Don’t make me wait all night—get in already,_ and if he sees that Dean’s hands are clenching the steering wheel a little too tightly, he doesn’t say anything, and neither does he try to hide the tense hold of his own body as he opens the door, slides in. Dean starts driving down the street even before Sam can close the door and says, “Jesus, Sammy, how does anyone get anywhere around this place?” Sam half-smiles and says, “It’s Sam, Dean, and we manage it just fine.”

“What’re you doing out on Hallowe’en, anyway?” Dean asks next, followed by, “What type of weapons are you carrying?” and Sam looks out of the window. _Ignore everything, the Dean Winchester way of life_ , Sam thinks, and says, “I’m out because I’ve been hunting a ghost,” half-lie, “and I have five knives, salt packets, and a handful of crosses and blessed rosaries, as well as a priest’s blessing,” all true. Dean looks at him, says, “Salt packets?” and then, “How do we get to Union Cemetery?”

\--

At this time of night, there are some other cars on the road but not many, and they reach the cemetery in good time, even if they haven’t talked about more than how to get there. “So who is this ghost?” Sam finally asks as they get out of the Impala and Dean looks at him from over the trunk, incredulous expression on his face. “What d’you mean, Sam?” he says, gruff, before reaching for the shovels, salt, and gasoline. “I thought you said you’d been hunting it, but you don’t even know who it is?” Sam opens his mouth to defend himself, explain about the Game, but closes it in time to stop himself from stirring up more trouble. Instead, he says, “Well, I know it’s one of the old nuclear scientists, and I know it was a suicide, which explains why we’re here and not a church cemetery, but I don’t know who it was or why it’s come back now.” Dean thrusts a shovel at Sam’s chest and starts trudging away. “Paul Robertssohn,” Dean calls out over his shoulder, searching the headstones by flashlight. “And it’s Hallowe’en and fifty years since he shot himself. Does a ghost need any more reason than that?” Sam thinks that over, shrugs, mutters, “Guess not.” Dean snorts and asks, “How did you even come across this ghost?” but before Sam can answer, Dean stops, holding up a hand for Sam to wait and be quiet, and as they both fall into a hunter’s stillness, Sam sees other flashlights up ahead and hears voices. 

They crouch behind an oversized gravestone and put down the shovels, salt, and gas, and Dean takes out a gun as Sam finally draws the knife from the small of his back, feeling the weight settle like comfort in his hands. A sudden burst of laughter makes Sam groan and he gets close enough to his brother to whisper in Dean’s ear, “Because it’s been haunting at least one of those kids pretty consistently for the past two days.” Dean exhales, drops his head into his hands, and Sam notices for the first time the deep, healing gouges on Dean’s neck. “What happened?” he asks, resisting the urge to skitter his fingers across those wounds and see how well the stitches are holding up, and Dean says, “What? Oh, those. Just a werewolf,” and Sam says, “He got that close to you?” Dean snickers, turns to Sam, and meets Sam’s eyes for the first time that night, saying, “ _She_ did, Sammy, but don’t worry. She’s dead. Dad got her with a round of silver-shot.” Sam nearly flinches at the mention of their father and turns away, looking at the group in front of them. He sees Dean do the same a heartbeat later, and then Dean asks, back to business, “Know anything about why they’re here?” Sam shakes his head, “Roger didn’t say anything about this,” and shoves his brother when Dean says, “Roger? Wow. Poor kid.”

He and Dean sit and watch for half an hour or so as the EMF steadily picks up more and more activity, and Dean finally says, “How much longer will they be here?” Sam shrugs, stands up, says, “I’ll find out. Keep an eye out for Paul,” as he tucks his knife back under his hoodie. Dean tries to tell him to sit back down, but Sam walks straight up to the group and says, surprise in his voice, “Roger? What’s going on? And how are you even awake?”

Roger gives Sam a lopsided grin and stands up too fast, swaying on his feet. “Sam! Awesome! We’re just,” he says, before hiccupping and falling back down onto the ground with a giggle. “Every year,” one of the other’s says, and Sam shakes his head, raises an eyebrow, in question. “Dr. Robertssohn’s grave,” the student says, gesturing at the headstone that Roger’s draped over. “Some of us nuke kids come out every year on Hallowe’en. Rog found out and begged to come along, and since, y’know, the Game and all,” and Sam’s once again absolutely and sincerely amazed that Becky was right and the Game really _is_ that important around Stanford. 

“Hey,” the same student says, “Rog said you’re Sam? His teammate Sam?” and Sam can feel Dean’s eyes on him, burning even from this far away. “Crazy genius Sam,” Roger says with all the drunken solemnity he can muster. “Couldn’t’ve done it without him. He knows Pascal and Latin _and_ AC/DC,” and Sam just about winces as he imagines the look on Dean’s face as Roger adds, “Bastard hasn’t slept for two days, and look how he can stand up even after the Game and the Game parties.” The others all eye him approvingly and one says, “Sit down, Sam, and have a beer,” and Sam shakes his head, says, “Thanks, but I was just here on a dare and have to get back. Can I give any of you a ride?” finding out what he wanted to know when Roger hiccups and slurs, “We’ll be here ‘til sunrise, man. Not leaving before that!” 

Sam gets back to Dean, who whispers, “What the hell were they talking about? You’ve been playing a game? I thought you were hunting.” Sam sighs, settles on his knees, and replies, “Not a game, _the_ Game. Look, it doesn’t matter. Let’s just find a way to get rid of them and then we can put this ghost to rest.” Dean frowns but lets it go and Sam’s trying to figure out how things can shake so much that he’d lie to his big brother, because he’s realised that the Game _is_ important, not because of the clues or the prestige of winning, but because it’s part of his definition now, his and Jess’ and Becky’s and Roger’s, and he’s closer to them because of that, he’s like them now, like a normal, safe student who wouldn’t think twice about being in a graveyard on All Hallow’s Eve, knowing that ghosts and demons and things that go bump in the night aren’t real. 

With Dean here, though, feeling Dean breathe next to him, seeing twin puffs of air cloud in the cool night breeze, Sam can’t be ‘Sam Winchester, freshman, Game winner,’ because that Sam wouldn’t be out here with knives and silver and salt. Just when he’s finally coming to terms with being on his own, with beginning to acknowledge parts of his life, Dean comes and tilts everything 180 degrees and now Sam doesn’t know whether to join Roger and the other physics kids or wait here with his brother, but not moving is easier than leaving Dean again, so Sam sits on his knees behind the headstone and tries to find that place of silent immobility he had in the airport. 

\--

It eludes him, no matter how hard he tries or how long he’s at it, and so he listens to the students laugh and wonders if Jess will notice he’s not back at FloMo hours after he said he was going home, smells Dean’s soap mingle with grave-rot and death. He sees quicksilver at the edges of his vision and rolls, pulling a knife and throwing it, an instinctive action, and this is why he doesn’t carry knives anymore or let himself go, because when he does, ghosts end up pinned by consecrated silver blades to trees, hissing and cursing, and it could be people next time, people like Jess, so there won’t _be_ a next time. “Good to know you’re still sharp,” Dean murmurs, going over and studying the ghost of Paul Robertssohn. “But Sam, how? And why?” Sam walks over, glares at the ghost because, really, all of this is Paul’s fault and there’s no one else to glare at, and says, “Blessed silver in a cemetery, and this way he can’t cause trouble while we wait for them,” gesturing at the cheerfully oblivious group of students, “to clear out and then burn his,” gesturing at the ghost, who’s still trying to get away from the knife, “bones.” Dean turns away from the ghost to look at Sam, says, joking, “Maybe we should’ve let Pauly here go after those kids; given them something _real_ to think about,” and Sam just feels tired, heart-deep tired. 

\--

It’s sunrise when the group of students leaves; each one of them stumbles on the uneven ground, heading back to cars with boxes of empty cans, blankets carried haphazardly over arms and shoulders and wrapped toga-style around bodies smelling of dirt and beer. “Finally,” Dean says, and Sam grunts his agreement. They’d drawn a ward around the ghost to keep Paul Robertssohn’s incessant cursing silent about two hours ago, but babysitting spirits is never fun and always boring. They pick up shovels and make quick work of digging up the old pine box and salting and burning the bones inside, and when they go back to the tree, Sam’s knife is sticking out of the trunk, no ghost. “Don’t know whether I like these quiet Hallowe’ens,” Dean says, and Sam carefully tucks his knife back where it goes, rolling his eyes. “Better than getting ripped apart by a werewolf, wasn’t it?” he asks, waving his hand in the general direction of Dean’s neck and the painful-looking gashes it carries. Dean looks at Sam, one of those deep, searching looks that makes Sam want to curl into a ball and hide, and says, quietly, “Yeah, it was,” and when Dean turns away, Sam doesn’t ask why. He doesn’t think he really wants to hear the reason, because he’s relatively sure it’ll end up in another three months of silence between both of them and these past few hours have been simultaneously some of the most horrific and some of the most wonderful since Sam arrived in Palo Alto.


	6. Commitment

His phone vibrates, then, as Dean’s carrying things back to the Impala, and when he sees it’s Jess, he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before answering. “Hey, Jess,” he says, and he can hear her and Becky giggling. “Open your door, Sam!” Becky yells, and Jess echoes that, says, “Since you’re awake and sober, wanna take us out for breakfast?” Sam says, “You haven’t slept in two days. Go to bed,” and hangs up, aware that he’s being abrupt but reasonably sure that neither of them will remember it once they actually do fall asleep. He looks at the phone, then turns it off, and picks up the extra shovel to follow Dean. 

When everything’s packed away, Dean puts his hands in his pockets and says, “So, d’you want breakfast or something? You’re looking awfully skinny these days. College food suck?” and Sam laughs, says, “Thank you, Granny Dean, but I’m fine. I should, I dunno, get back.” He shrugs, adds, “I’ve got classes this afternoon.” Dean nods, looks at something over Sam’s shoulders, and says, “Yeah, all right. Get in, I’ll take you back.”

Neither of them says much on the way to Stanford; Sam takes them the back ways to avoid as much of the morning rush as is possible and Dean asks stupid questions. “How’s class?” is one of them, and Sam doesn’t think it’d be a good idea to start rambling about his professor’s take on Greek city-state republicanism or certifiable graduate instructors, so he says, “They’re good, I guess,” and then tells Dean to turn right. “How’s your roommate?” is another, and Sam doesn’t want to mention anything about how much he envies Ben at times, about how generally awesome Ben is at making Sam feel at ease and welcome, so he says, “His name’s Ben. He’s all right. Doesn’t snore as much as you do,” even if the last one’s a lie that Dean waves off. “Got any protection around your room?” is Dean’s next question, and the tone reminds him of dad, of _Don’t come back_ , so he snaps, “Salt and runes, Dean. I’m not an idiot,” and then curses internally when Dean takes his hands off of the steering wheel as if to say, _Hey, don’t shoot._ This is why Sam needs to sleep, so he can stop from saying stupid shit like that to his brother, the brother he hasn’t seen in months and has missed like nobody’s business. Dean doesn’t say anything about it, just turns when Sam tells him and lets his thumb caress the steering wheel, as if he’s telling the Impala to not listen to Sam, who somehow finds that action the funniest thing ever and starts laughing. He can’t seem to catch his breath, the past two days settling on him the only way he’ll let them, in hysterics, so he points and Dean follows his directions back to FloMo. 

He steps out of the car, right onto the curb, and Dean gets out as well, leaving the Impala’s engine on, idling. They both stand on their side of the car, more than the Impala separating Sam from his brother. Dean nods at the building behind Sam, says, “That where you live now?” and Sam shrugs, “Other side of the hall, but yeah.” Dean nods again, makes a noise that could mean anything from, ‘Well, how ‘bout that,’ to ‘You’re shitting me, right? This is what you threw dad and me over for?’ and, Sam thinks, is probably meant to encompass the gamut. Dean gets this expression in his face, then, as Sam’s praying no one he knows is pulling an all-nighter in the lounge because he wouldn’t even begin to know how to explain Dean being here, and Dean says, “You gonna invite me up?” like he’s spoiling for a fight or maybe just any response that shows Sam cares. 

Sam’s just tired enough and angry enough and hysterical enough and not thinking at all enough to say, “Dean,” and trail off, not sure how to put everything he’s feeling into words. Dean steps back and yet Sam can still see the way his brother’s pupils dilate, the way his brother’s lips flatten in a line almost impossible to make out. “Dean,” he says again, tone of voice as torn as he feels, but Dean shakes his head and opens the door. “No, Sammy, I get it, I do. I’m not good enough for this, and you’re too ashamed of me to even think about introducing me to your roommate and friends. Fine. I get it, all right? Next time, you can hunt by yourself, because I know where I’m not wanted,” and all Sam can do is whisper, “Ben’s probably sleeping.” 

Dean glares at him, gets in the Impala and nearly slams the door, almost but not quite, too careful of the car even in his anger. Sam feels helpless to stop this, he’s been awake too long and everything’s moving past him too fast for him to keep up, and then Dean leans over and says through the open window, “Y’know, Sammy, I thought dad was wrong, but you _are_ a selfish bastard,” before gunning the engine and driving off, tires squealing. 

Sam stands there, he doesn’t know how long, and when he finally goes inside, he lays in bed and stares at the ceiling. 

\--

The rest of All Hallow’s, the first day of November, passes in a blur, everything mixed together and painfully violent in his senses, smelling San Francisco as he sits in his class and takes an exam he hasn’t prepared diligently for, hearing Jess’ laughter in his ears when he’s eating dinner alone and trying to read, seeing slippery silver spirits and Dean everywhere, no matter which way he turns. He falls asleep in a haze, pale skin and bloodshot eyes, around eight, and wakes up six hours later, shivering after dreams of a hungry fire desperate to burn and devour, and he doesn’t need to get dressed before he leaves, just slips on a pair of sneakers and grabs his keys. 

His feet stop at the threshold of the church an hour of wandering later, and he hesitates, then shuffles in, dips his fingers in cool, clear water, and feels it scald his skin when he crosses himself. Sam walks straight to the confessional and enters, and when he hears the priest’s soft breathing, Sam thinks of his family, _Don’t come back_ , _selfish bastard_ , and the feel of Jess nestled close to him, safe. 

“Forgive me, father,” Sam says, then stops, and when the priest asks, gentle and soothing, “What do you wish to confess, my son?” Sam’s body folds in on itself and he starts to cry.


End file.
